


Hannibal Prompts

by ConstanceComment



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Cannibalism, Crack, F/F, Gen, Random & Short, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/pseuds/ConstanceComment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just collecting all my Hannibal ask box fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freddie Lounds/Alana Bloom

The woman who walks into her office is striking; with red hair, sharp eyes, the smile she wears is only just this side of professionally false, and very obviously her primary weapon in life;

“Tell me about, your colleague, Will Graham,” she opens, and perhaps Alana should add intellect to the list of this woman’s weapons.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality-” Alana protests, and the woman’s smile grows sharper, realer.

“Ah, but he’s not your patient, is he,” the woman says, “just a friend, was it? So, evaluate him for me, if you’d be so kind.” Her eyes flash; “as a friend, of course.”

“Excuse me, who are you?” Alana asks, irritation growing, but curiosity too, because she wants to know, and not only so that she can call security.

The woman holds out a hand. “Freddie Lounds,” she says, grinning.

Alana shakes her hand, and the impression lingers that she has entered something not entirely unlike a gentlemen’s duel, though she suspects there will be far less rules, though the ugly bloodshed will be just the same.

“Dr. Alana Bloom-” she replies.

Freddie grins at her, interrupting; “No need to use your doctorate as a shield, Ms. Bloom,” she says, and Alana continues, smiling back around teeth bared and white;

“psychiatry consultant and profile-maker to the FBI. I’m sure we have something on you, Ms. Lounds.” Alana notices the slight twitch of nerve at the woman’s temple, and if her own smile is sharper for it, then what of it? Where was it ever written that one woman could have a monopoly on the danger of a smile?

“Welcome to Quantico,” Alana says, and lets go of Lounds’s hand.


	2. Alana Bloom, Abigail Hobbs - Dying

“Do you remember?” Dr. Bloom asks, smile neutral, her expression professionally concerned; no, perhaps just a bit beyond that. She seems to care very much, this Dr. Bloom.

Abigail wants to ask her, “remember what?” because that’s a wide open question: there are a lot of things she remembers.

She remembers the way her father smiled at her that morning when she came downstairs for breakfast. She remembers the way he kissed her mother, quick and soft on the cheek the way long-married couples do.

Mostly, Abigail remembers the way it had felt when her father had come at her with the knife, the apology in his eyes just before he spun her around and slit her throat. He looked so sorry, so sad. It reminded her of the way he looked at her the first time she got in trouble at school, right before he punished her, the words unspoken: _‘This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.’_

Well of course it did. Her father was the one who stayed dead, after all. 

But Abigail still remembers what it felt like.

“Not much,” she tells Dr. Bloom, meeting the woman in the too-concerned eyes.


	3. Hannibal Lecter, Alana Bloom - Cookies

“The cookies are people,” Hannibal coughs under his breath, adjusting his sleeves, removing a few rammikins from the oven.

“Hm?” Alana asks, turning with a cookie half-bitten in her hand. “Did you say something?”

“Never mind,” Hannibal mutters, reaching for his cooking torch.

Alana balks, eyes widening slightly. “What’s the flamethrower for?” She asks, curiosity coloring her tone.

“Crème brûlée,” Hannibal deadpans. “Which is also people.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Hannibal sighs. “Never mind.”

And these people are the last line of defense between the American public and itself.

No wonder there’s a crime spree on.


	4. Will Graham, Freddie Lounds - Fairytale

He comes for her out of the forest, stepping from the brush onto the path worn by tires and feet, dirt scraped dusty beneath humanity’s tread. There’s something wild in his eyes and his glasses are smeared with dirt; he looks as though he hasn’t managed to shave in a few days.

He almost snarls at her when he talks, his nose curling up in a twitching sneer he can’t quite suppress; most likely, he hasn’t even thought to.

“It’s not smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living,” he says, and Freddie does her very best not to smile, though from the confusion on his face perhaps she was not entirely successful.

Still; dark stranger in the forest, young woman with red about her face, monster that came out of the woods to menace an innocent. There’s something of a fairy tale here. Something the brothers Grimm would create, blood and violence, and perhaps a fair amount of sex.

And if there isn’t? Well. Freddie wouldn’t be halfway to where she is now if she didn’t know how to tell a good cautionary tale.


	5. Abigail Hobbs, Hannibal Lecter - Successor

“It is not so hard,” Hannibal says quietly, carefully, shirtsleeves pinned up neatly, his. “Simply separate the meat from bones by; like this,” he instructs her, coming to stand behind her, readjusting Abigail’s hands around the butcher’s knife.

“Cut with the sinew,” Hannibal tells her, making the first incision for her, paring the skin from the meat, “there is no need to waste.”

“She died,” Abigail says quietly, looking down at the blood on her hands.

Behind her, Hannibal nods. “Yes,” he says, and he is not unkind. “But all things die. The question is only a matter of when, and of how, and for what purpose.”

“Like a predator with its prey?” Abigail asks, and this time Hannibal shakes his head. “She died so that you could eat?”

“No,” he corrects her, “she died because she was rude. To eat her is simply to make sure that her death serves a purpose, with the products of her life to be served on my table."

“Honor…” Abigail says slowly, and behind her, Hannibal’s smile is something vicious and dark, and terribly proud.

“In a sense,” he agrees, and beams as Abigail makes her first cut, separating layers of muscle and fat.

“I think a bouillon, yes?” Hannibal suggests.

“This isn’t beef,” Abigail says as she continues, not letting her attention linger on the corpse on the cutting board any more than she has to.

“No, it isn’t,” the Ripper confirms, preparing a sauce on the stove beside her. “But beef is what we tell people, and only we will know the difference.”


End file.
